


Cauldron's Christmas Party

by Omega_93



Category: Parahumans Series - Wildbow
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:34:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28456911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omega_93/pseuds/Omega_93
Summary: Contessa insists on throwing a party for her coworkers on Christmas Eve. Things go awry.
Relationships: Rebecca Costa-Brown | Alexandria/Fortuna | Contessa
Comments: 1
Kudos: 25
Collections: The Cauldron Give-a-Fic-a-Thon





	1. REBECCA I

****~~~

REBECCA I

Peeling herself out of her costume was always the worst part of the day. Tinkertech fabric and unmoving skin made for overenthusiastic bedfellows, and the horrid little sound of their parting--like pulling an adhesive sticker off a piece of glass--made her skin crawl. 

Metaphorically speaking. In reality, her skin had been above such silly notions for many years.

Replacing her bloodstained costume was one not much better; one she couldn’t quite bring herself to believe she was going to be donning.

Made of red, velvety fabric with fluffy white accents at every hem, the scandalously short skirt and low-cut Santa jacket combo seemed more suited to a woman at least a decade her junior and the precise opposite of her in personality. 

Unfortunately, Contessa insisted this was all that could be acquired on short notice.

The skirt hugged her hips nicely, at least, but the jacket ended up being so small she threatened to burst out of it. Vexing. There had been times when her coworkers had seen her naked when she was in a rush to transform from Rebecca Costa-Brown to Alexandria, but flashing them in the middle of a party was another thing entirely.

Hopefully, Contessa’s sense of humour didn’t stray too far into the perverted.

With no other option but to trust she wasn’t about to be humiliated, Rebecca donned her santa hat, letting the fluffy white pompom flop down the side of her head, and spoke. 

“Door me to the party room.”

A gap in reality yawned open, and she stepped through. 

All in all, it was like any other room in the vast expanse of Cauldron’s base, save for one detail--or, more accurately, many small details that added up to one large detail.

Decorations.

Red and green tinsel snaked its way over the white light fixtures. A forest green Christmas tree teased out some modicum of life from the white floors. The walls were adorned almost absolutely in plastic imitations of various christmas-themed plants, with some “snow”-dusted pine cones sprinkled in for good measure.

It was horrible. Part of her wanted to turn back around and leave, but she had no doubt the portal was already gone and she’d just be walking into another jolly green wall.

Only her extreme control over her body and its functions kept her from sighing as she found herself the centre of attention from her coworkers. Of _course_ Contessa had contrived events so that Rebecca would arrive last. She’d been wondering why it had fallen to her to capture the escaped subject that afternoon. Now she knew.

Evidently, Cauldron’s bogeywoman was still upset at her for insisting she not use her power when they were playing Trivial Pursuit. How was Rebecca to know Contessa couldn’t read the questions without it?

The costumes on display before her were about what she expected. Suffering and woe.

Legend was nowhere to be seen. Just as they hadn’t told him about the human experimentation and war crimes, they hadn’t told him about the party.

Kurt was dressed in a full Santa's little elf get up, with a buckled green coat, green tights, and pointy red boots. To say he seemed unimpressed with his current state of being would be like saying the people of Madison were unimpressed after the Simurgh’s visit.

Eidolon was dressed up as a snow-man, with his hairy arms poking out of the holes at the side of the snowball that made up his upper-body, the picture complete with a carrot strapped to his nose and a top-hat resting atop his head. Judging by the little puddle slowly forming beneath him, his costume was made of actual snow. Glace’s work, at a guess.

Doctor Mother was wearing a onesie styled to look like a reindeer, complete with a bulbous, glowing red nose attached to her face. Her expression was so deadpan as she sipped on a glass of something clear and bubbly that Rebecca wondered if she was dissociating. 

Last, but certainly not least, was the architect of their ails.

Black hair in a braid that reached halfway down her back. Flawless tanned skin. Simmering dark eyes that glittered with a malicious intelligence as they beheld Rebecca’s costume as if trying to peel away her outfit and skin and see the truth of the woman within. Her suit was impeccable, nary a wrinkle in sight. Not a single speck of dust dared to mar her fedora. The gleam of her polished shoes was blinding.

That is to say: Contessa wasn’t wearing a costume at all. In fact, if Rebecca’s memory served her right (it did) she hadn’t even changed since barging into Rebecca’s office to inform her of the party’s time and location (along with a declaration of mandatory attendance) this morning.

_Of course._

But Rebecca had been expecting nothing less. 

Ignoring the eyes that were pointedly not upon her, she crossed the room to the punch bowl. 

(It was shaped like a Cauldron, which was awful, but Rebecca made sure to show no reaction to it. She didn’t want to give Contessa the satisfaction.)

Her time alone with the mildly alcoholic beverage was short-lived, though she managed to get a glass down in those brief moments of solitude. 

“I like the outfit,” Contessa said as if seeing it for the first time. “It suits you.”

“I’m sure it does.”

“You look like a young woman again, about to go out for a night on the town.”

“I bet I do.”

Contessa stepped closer to get some punch of her own--presumably for Doctor Mother; Contessa didn’t drink.

“Perhaps, even, a lady capable of having some fun?” she asked.

Rebecca narrowed her eyes, though she still didn’t grace her conversational partner with her direct attention. That would feel like a loss, somehow. “And what is _that_ supposed to mean?”

“What did you take it to mean?” Contessa’s voice was as monotone as ever, no doubt matching her emotionless expression. If there was any playfulness in it, Rebecca was imagining things. 

“I haven’t decided yet,” Rebecca said.

“Let me know when you make up your mind.”

Contessa moved away without another word. 

Footsteps approached shortly.

“That skirt is three point eight five inches shorter than you would be comfortable with,” the Number Man said.

“My foot is going to be three-point eight five inches up your ass in a minute,” Rebecca replied.

“Don’t tempt me with a good time,” he said.

She turned to give him a look.

“Ah. It seems the complexities of humour still elude me.” He fiddled with his glasses. “I will endeavour to improve.”

Rebecca just nodded, downing a glass of punch while maintaining eye contact. It wasn’t particularly intimidating as far as power moves went--even the most alcohol-intolerant would feel little more than a buzz off _punch_. It was more of a reminder than anything. Kurt had once challenged Rebecca to a drinking competition, confident in his ability to calculate her alcohol tolerance and win the day with ease.

Of course, he hadn’t taken into account that Rebecca wasn’t able to get drunk in the first place. It was a party trick she kept in her back pocket for rainy days, or when she wanted to haze her subordinates in the Protectorate.

 _You’re not as smart as you think you are, buddy_ , her eyes said, punctuated with heaving gulps of punch.

Kurt wrinkled his nose. “I didn’t come over here to start a competition, for the record.”

While still downing one glass, she reached for another and filled it. When the first glass was finished, she immediately brought the second to her lips. 

Never once did she break eye contact as she allowed one brow to climb to her hairline. 

Kurt’s returning stare was unimpressed. “You’re not going to goad me. I merely approached you as a kindred spirit in distaste for this kind of thing.” He gestured all around them. “There is work to be done. This is absurd.”

Rebecca agreed. But when Contessa wanted something, she got it. A fact of life. Unavoidable. Even if she was the only one who had any interest in this, it was going to happen.

Rebecca resisted the temptation to reach for a third glass when the second was empty. Instead, she spoke. “There’s no point in fighting against her, Kurt. Indulge her whims, just for the day.”

“I wasn’t planning on going _against_ her. I’m not stupid. That doesn’t mean I can’t complain about it though.”

“I can’t imagine Eidolon was unreceptive to your advances.”

Indeed, the older man stood in the corner of the room with his arms crossed, stone-faced. His black top hot was clenched in one hand, white-knuckled.

“He’s throwing a sulk,” Kurt said. “I might as well talk to one of the little reindeer charms hanging off the Christmas tree.”

True, but Rebecca wasn’t going to tell him that.

“Did she give you any idea as to her plans for the evening, at least?” Kurt asked.

“Nought beyond this outfit she expected me to wear.” Rebecca gestured to herself. The jacket was tight around her chest, but the buttons weren’t currently in peril. Small mercies. “I’m sure she’ll have it meticulously planned out.”

Kurt frowned, staring at something behind her. “It doesn’t look like it.”

Rebecca followed his gaze. Contessa was by Doctor Mother’s side, watching some snow drift onto the Christmas tree from a portal hanging above. As Rebecca watched, Contessa lifted the glass of punch. Instead of transferring it to Doctor Mother as she had assumed, the rim found its way to Contessa’s lips. She took a dainty sip.

“Why does Contessa drinking _punch_ make you so doubtful?”

“Because, Rebecca, I have worked with Contessa for over fifteen years at this juncture.” he paused for dramatic effect. “And I have never seen her drink alcohol.”

Rebecca’s eyes widened. Now that she looked closer, Contessa’s cheeks were already flushed red. 

This was bad. 

“Doctor Mother made the punch,” Kurt continued in a voice barely louder than a whisper. “It has an alcohol content of seventeen point eight six percent.”

Catastrophic.

“Has she had some already?”

“I haven’t seen her do so, but the level of punch in the bowl is one-eighth of an inch lower than it should be. She may have been sneaking glasses.”

Apocalyptic.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” Rebecca said, fighting to keep her voice steady. “We’ll both approach her. Move slowly. We don’t want to scare her off; if she escapes, there’s no knowing what she could do. Our priority is to keep her entertained until the alcohol is out of her system.” 

“That may not be possible.”

Contessa turned away, facing the tree fully. Rebecca could no longer see her face, but by the stance of her body, the glass was still to her lips.

_Fuck._

“If we balked in the face of impossible tasks, Cauldron would not exist,” she said.

Kurt shifted, conceding the point. There was no time to revel in her victory as they put their plan into action.

Rebecca approached directly, while Kurt moved off to the side, seeking to attack from Contessa’s--physical--blind spot. If her heart was capable of beating, it would be thunderous. If she needed to breathe, she’d be puffing out gale-force winds.

At some unseen cue, Doctor Mother turned. “Rebecca. Would you care to join us?” she said, oblivious to or uncaring of the potential crisis on their hands.

“I’d love to,” Rebecca replied. Years of training and an impossibly large intellect kept her voice calm. “I didn’t realise the snow was real.”

“It wasn’t until just now.” Doctor Mother gave her bodyguard a look. “Contessa decided she wanted our party to be more authentic.”

_Already acting impulsively. Not good._

“A wonderful idea,” Kurt said. He’d appeared on Doctor Mother’s other side seamlessly. “I suppose Doormaker agreed to it.”

Doctor Mother nodded. 

Contessa still hadn’t uttered a word, and her face was at an angle where it was totally obscured from Rebecca’s view. Coincidence? Not when it came to Contessa. There had to be something else in play, here.

Rebecca decided to test the alcoholic waters. “Why is it that everyone has to play fancy dress apart from you?”

“What are you _hic_ talking about?” Contessa replied. Her words were crisp and perfect, unmarred by any slurred syllables. The hiccup, however, was concerning. She pointed to her head. “I have tinsel on my hat.”

Rebecca squinted. “So you do. _Black_ tinsel.”

“You can’t deny that’s _hic_ a deviation from my regular attire.”

“But it’s hardly fancy dress, is it?”

Contessa spun on her heel. Where usually the motion would be carried out with the grace and elegance of a dancer, today there was a hint of a hitch in her step. A moment of less-than-perfect balance. 

More worrying was the rosy tinge on Contessa’s cheek, teased out by the soft white light from the overhead portal.

“Define fancy dress, for me,” Contessa said.

Confidence in “plan: distract Contessa” growing at the same rate as her dread at Contessa’s rapidly worsening inebriated state, Rebecca consulted her memory banks for the dictionary definition. The result gave her a frown.

“A costume for a ball, masquerade, etc., chosen to please the fancy, usually a costume characteristic of a particular period or place, class of persons, or historical or fictitious character.”

Contessa nodded. “Do you not think my tinsel pleases the fancy?”

“It pleases the fancy,” Rebecca said hastily. The intensity in Contessa’s gaze at that moment was alarming. “But it doesn’t quite please the fancy as much as the rest of us, does it?”

Doctor Mother in her reindeer onesie, complete with a shiny red nose.

Number Man’s elf outfit, clinging tight enough to his body to emphasise his well-honed muscles, particularly his glutes.

Eidolon was sulking in the corner in a snow-man ensemble, and the look on his face was frosty enough to match the theme.

Rebecca especially thought that _her_ outfit pleased Contessa’s fancy rather too much, judging by the gaze that had strayed down her neckline when she thought Rebecca wasn’t looking.

Contessa blinked a few times as the words hit her. Much to Rebecca’s disbelief, her bottom lip started wobbling and her eyes started to glisten.

“I worked really hard on this,” she said.

It turned out the words bad, catastrophic, and apocalyptic were not enough to describe their predicament. A far worse crisis had befallen them.

Contessa was an emotional drunk.

_Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck._

“We know you worked hard,” Kurt cut in. To the untrained ear, his voice was composed, almost serene. To one who knew him well, there was an edge of tension as he fiddled with his pocket protector--why he even had a pocket protector on his elf costume was a mystery for another day. “And we appreciate all the effort you went to.”

Doctor Mother raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been complaining to me about this for weeks, Kurt.”

Violence simmered in Kurt’s eyes, but Doctor Mother didn’t even flinch.

Rebecca blinked hard, affronted. _Wait, the rest of them knew about this for weeks?_

“Complaining?” Contessa asked with a tremor in her tone.

“He was complaining that the party couldn’t come sooner,” Rebecca cut in, sensing danger. “He’s been looking forward to this for a while.”

“He said this was a waste of time,” Doctor Mother replied matter-of-factly.

Rebecca had never hoped for Scion to discover Cauldron’s base before, but apparently there were first times for everything.

“What he _meant_ was--”

“You don’t _hic_ like my party?” Contessa cut her off. Her head drooped, the brim of her hat covering her eyes. The black tinsel started to slip, and she reached out to prop it up. “I just wanted to do something nice for you all.”

Before anyone could react, Contessa made a run for it.

Rebecca’s cry of “Wait!” was summarily outmatched by Contessa’s wailed “Door me!” and the woman disappeared through a gap in the air. It closed before Rebecca or Kurt could even think to pursue her.

The room was quiet, save for the wind stealing through the portal above. They all stared at it, as if it could answer all their unvoiced questions.

It could not, and thus the question was voiced.

“What just happened?” David asked from across the room. His voice warbled, clearly shivering but trying to hide it.

Rebecca ground her teeth.

_Shit._


	2. REBECCA II

REBECCA II

Cauldron’s primary meeting room had been the stage where the most powerful people in the world had formulated the response to hundreds of catastrophes, calamities, and crises. 

S-class threats. Parahuman legislation. Even their plans to deal with the Golden Man. In this very room, the fate of the world was decided.

Here, the four of them gathered, grim-faced. Doctor Mother, Eidolon, Alexandria, and the Number Man. None of them were strangers to crisis, nor were they predisposed to panic. Still, the mood in the room was tense, somber.

It had been half an hour since Contessa had escaped, inebriated, through a portal. Doormaker had apparently been unable to tell them where she’d gone, and Doctor Mother had called a meeting before they could question him further.

Doctor Mother’s face was half obscured by steepled fingers.

“It appears Contessa has gone on a bar crawl,” she said.

Years of practice kept Rebecca’s expression and voice neutral. “A bar crawl?”

“In a manner of speaking. ‘Christmas party crawl’ isn’t a real phrase, unfortunately.”

“Seeking to get into the spirit of the holidays, after none was to be found here?” Kurt asked.

Doctor Mother nodded, frowning. “In her drunk state, there is no telling what secrets she could divulge. We must stop her before she leaks something critical.”

A heavy silence fell over the room.

“Already,” Doctor Mother continued. “She has lost three pieces of vital and top secret material.”

“That material being?” David asked.

“Vials. It’s far from unusual for vials to go missing--it’s happened before--but they must be recovered. I will be sending the three of you to pick them up, while I continue to coordinate Doormaker and his companion in their attempts to locate her.”

“You don’t want us to search for her directly?” Rebecca asked.

“No. She’s too upset with you, right now. There’s no telling what she could do. I’ll have to deal with her myself, with the assistance of Doormaker and his companion.”

“Doormaker said she was hidden from Clairvoyant’s sight.”

“Then I’ll have to wait until she wishes to be found.”

Silence settled once more. Rebecca looked between her comrades, searching their expressions, and found only determination on one side and indifference on the other. She elbowed Number Man in the ribs.

“Take this seriously,” she said.

Number Man rubbed his side. “I am.”

“Not enough.”

“Don’t go bothering me just because you’re feeling restless.”

“I am not--”

“Enough,” Doctor Mother cut in. She told them where their vials would be, stone-faced. “Go.”

Rebecca stood, her companions on either side of her rising in the same motion, gave Cauldron’s leader a nod, then turned. A portal was waiting for her, and she rose an inch off the ground to float through.


	3. REBECCA III

REBECCA III

The bathroom was well-maintained, but cheap. Spotless but flimsy plastic dividers separated the toilet stalls. They were enough to conceal her spontaneous entrance, though, and that was enough.

The space outside the hall and the people milling around in it were much the same. Clean but low-cost. It was in the unstained but thin curtains, the squeaky clean but off-colour floor, the well-maintained but flimsy plastic chairs. In the well-ironed but somewhat faded red clothes, the polished but fraying shoes, and the wheelchairs, walking sticks, and mobility scooters that looked like they were the brain-children of men who'd lived at a time when flairs and fake afros were hip and groovy.

Rebecca looked down at her own outfit and sighed. Hardly appropriate for a room full of old people shuffling around in vaguely Christmas-related red attire, but somehow she felt it would stand out less than the business attire she tended to prefer. Contessa’s crude prank had turned out to be useful.

Bolstered by the thought, she stepped further into the room.

 _If I’m already on the strings, I might as well see how I’m to dance_. 

Or so went her rationale. The fact she’d been dressed up in a saucy santa outfit then sent to a costumed party consisting almost entirely of fellow Father Nicks hadn’t escaped her.

It didn’t matter. All she had to do was head over to the buffet and retrieve the lost vial, then leave.

“Rebecca? Is that you?” someone called out when she was barely halfway.

She sighed. Of course it wasn’t that easy. Of course someone recognised her.

Of course the person who recognised her was someone she’d been avoiding for--

“Ten years, it’s been! My goodness, you haven’t aged a day!”

Rebecca pasted on a smile and made a ninety-degree right turn. “Hello, Martha. I could say the same for you.”

Martha Schaeffer. Rebecca’s words could have rang true--the woman was so old at this point that a few extra wrinkles hardly made a difference to the unobservant eye--if not for her perfect memory cataloguing all the details for her in excruciating detail. The hunch in her posture, the deeper onset of grey to her hair, the liver-spots dotting her skin.

It didn’t take a genius to notice the wheelchair, either.

_When did that happen?_

Martha giggled in that way old ladies do when given a tongue-in-cheek compliment. “Oh, you’re still a little charmer.” Her eyes were sparkling. “What brings you down to Florida, Rebecca? Surely you’ve got better places to spend Christmas Eve than this crumby old retirement home?”

It took her a moment to scramble for a suitable excuse. 

“I’ve missed you,” Rebecca said. Somehow, she found she wasn’t lying. Odd. “It’s been such a long time. I’m sorry I didn’t come to see you sooner.”

Martha smiled up at her, despite the obvious lie. You don’t go a decade without seeing someone if you missed them. There was an unfathomable softness in her eyes; just as unbearable as Rebecca had always imagined it would be. _Damn you, Contessa._

“You didn’t have to do that, Rebecca, I know how busy you are. Just a call would have been enough.”

 _And I’ve barely even managed that much_.

“Nonsense. It was about time I came to see you, Martha. I’m not getting any younger, you know?”

Martha tittered. “Flattery will get you everywhere. Would you like to get something to eat?”

“That would be lovely,” Rebecca said, taking the handles on Martha’s chair and moving them towards the buffet. This was much better. Didn’t have to look Martha in the eyes this way.

“How have you been?” Martha asked. “Not overworking yourself, I hope.”

She’d been working twenty-three hours a day for over nine years, now. “Not at all. One must never let work overtake their life, right?”

“It’s not quite how I used to phrase it, but it’s nice to see you’ve picked up on the spirit of the message. Eating well? Sleeping well?”

It was a struggle not to roll her eyes. “Of course. I always keep myself healthy, Martha. How about you?”

“I’m glad to hear that. With Richard no longer with us, there was no one around to nag you.”

Rebecca felt a lump in her throat. A sensation that hadn’t made itself known in some time. 

“But me?” Martha continued. “Oh, I do the best an old lady can. I eat the mush they give me, I sleep half the day, I let them roll me around on this silly chair when they offer. Not much exercise to be had for these frail old bones.”

“Frail?” Rebecca replied on autopilot as they reached the buffet. “You look like you could still lift me over your head!”

“Ha! If only. Grab me a plate would you, dearie?”

Rebecca obliged her, then went back to get her own after a moment’s thought. Her eye roved over the table, seeking the telltale glint of the vial. Nothing. Was Doctor Mother’s intel wrong?

“What would you like?” Rebecca asked, turning to face Martha as an excuse to get an eye on the crowd. Had someone here taken it?

“I’ll let you pick for me,” Martha said. 

Rebecca resisted the urge to sigh. She needed to find the vial as soon as possible, but… something in her screamed and rebelled at the idea of refusing the old lady’s request.

It was like old times, but in reverse. Martha had always taken delight in trying to guess Rebecca’s palate, and Rebecca couldn’t deny that there was some enjoyment to be found in the activity. Something about knowing someone well enough to pick out a good meal for them sparked joy in Rebecca’s chest. A human connection she hadn’t allowed herself in years.

“I don’t blame you, you know,” Martha said.

Rebecca froze. A fissure opened in her heart, and she didn’t dare speak for fear it would split in two.

“If that’s what you’ve always been worried about, why you stayed away,” Martha clarified. “I never thought it was your fault. Richard always talked about how the four of you were like a family, and how he’d always be willing to put his life on the line for you. You were like a little sister to him.”

Rebecca closed her eyes. Of course Richard had told his mother everything. Why did she ever think any different?

“He died doing what he loved: fighting at your side. He had no regrets, I guarantee it.” Emotion was thick in Martha’s voice now. “So, I’m sorry that you felt you had to stay away from me. If I ever gave you the impression I was the type of person who’d blame you and condemn you. I just want you to know I’d never do that.”

She couldn’t take it anymore. “I didn’t stay away because I thought you blamed me, Martha,” Rebecca said. She met the old lady’s eyes. “I stayed away because I knew you wouldn’t.”

“You silly girl.” A tear rolled down her wrinkled cheek, over her jawline, before it felt into her lap, inches away from the vial she cradled in her leathery hands. “Blaming yourself is no good either.”

Rebecca couldn’t help but laugh. Of course Richard had told her about Cauldron, too.

“I can’t help it, I’m afraid,” she said.

“Well then, you better find yourself someone who can do her darned best to convince you.” Martha held the vial out. When Rebecca moved to take it, she drew it back just out of reach. “You don’t have to visit me, Rebecca, I meant that. But call, once in a while? I used to think of you as family too, you know?”

“I’ll visit,” Rebecca said. “I promise.”


	4. KURT I

KURT I

The drab greys were a welcome change from the norm Kurt hadn’t known he needed. It was still a dull colour, but something about the simple white of Cauldron’s base had been nagging at him for some time; it was only when he beheld a building made up of grey walls, grey doors, and various other things in shades of grey that he managed to put his finger on it.

He just hated black and white. Too simple. Boring. Colour codes with six identical symbols.

Of course, this was a mere distraction as he stalked through the halls of the Parahuman Asylum. Why Doormaker couldn’t have just dropped him off directly next to the vial and allowed him to snatch it in but a moment was unclear, but he could hardly complain about getting out of the office.

He turned a grey corner into another grey corridor and paused. From the reinforced bars at the checkpoint ahead of him, it appeared he was about to enter the section of the building reserved for the more lethal patients. This was the location he’d been given for the vial, but caution would be required.

He drew a pen from the safety of his pocket protector and let it spin on one finger as he continued onward. Picking the lock with a hairpin was a simple matter, and he was through the checkpoint without breaking stride.

_ Now then. _

His measured stroll along the corridor took him to his destination: room r12. In the interests of being polite, he gave a sharp knock on the door before he entered. The lights were off, and he darted into the shadows beside the door the moment it swung shut behind him.

No staff were within, which was convenient. He’d managed to come this far without engaging in combat, and on the spot arbitrarily decided he’d treat this as a stealth mission. It was unnecessary, considering he had the credentials to go wherever he pleased in PRT-ran facilities, but the day had been a frustrating one and he felt like spicing things up a bit.

“Hello? Is someone there?” A small, girlish voice called out.

Of course, it went without saying the room wouldn’t be totally empty.

As an asylum for parahumans who were unable to integrate into society because of their agent-granted abilities, the rooms were inevitably going to contain patients. In the section where doors were reinforced steel and the security cameras boasted containment foam sprayers, the reason for their inability to integrate was going to be of a more dangerous variety.

_ Time to see what monster I’m faced with _ , Kurt thought.

The room was divided by a reinforced glass wall, splitting off the patient’s living area from the visitor’s space beside the door. A parahuman so dangerous that the staff couldn’t even be in the same room with them. There  _ was _ a door on the glass, so it wasn’t impossible to enter the section the lost vial was supposedly located in, but this was going to be bothersome.

The only light in the room now came from a computer screen in the patient’s side of the room, and Kurt stepped forward to let it fall upon him.

“Good evening,” he said. The patient was but a silhouette to the naked eye in this shaky darkness, but he didn’t need his regular vision to pick her out. The numbers gave him what he needed to know. She’d spread herself out almost entirely across the back wall furthest from the door the moment he entered, her body a tangle of tendrils spreading out from a human face at the centre. Garotte. One of theirs. “My name is Kurt Wynn. I am here on behalf of the PRT to retrieve something that’s been lost.”

There was a period of silence that lasted two point nine three five seconds before the girl replied, voice soft, tinted with nerves. “Why are you dressed like Santa’s little elf?”

Kurt floundered for an answer for a moment. “It’s a hobby.”

The girl gave him a strange look. “Are you with that lady from earlier?”

“The lady from earlier?”

“Guess not,” she said. “You’re the second person to visit me today. Are you going to come in here, too? She left that case by my computer, there.”

Kurt squinted into the darkness. It was concealed in the deeper shadows cast behind the late of the computer screen, but that was indeed one of the briefcases used to transport their vials. 

“I fear I may need to.”

“I hope your power works as well as hers, then.”

“Oh?”

Another three point two seconds of silence. “I’m here because I can’t control myself very well. If you can’t dodge me like she did, or if you haven’t got super strength, I’ll hurt you. Really bad. I don’t want to hurt anyone, so  _ please  _ don’t come in if you think you won’t be able to dodge.”

This was growing tiresome. “How do I enter?”

“The door.”

Kurt found it difficult to understand humour, but even he could tell when someone was making a sarcastic joke. “Very funny.”

“I wasn’t kidding.” Or maybe not. “I don’t know how it works, but the only way in is through the door, there.”

Kurt grimaced. He still had a lot to learn about humour, it seemed. Resolving to write an algorithm for detecting sarcasm later, he stepped up to the glass, inspecting it.

From this angle, the light from the computer screen illuminated Garotte’s face--he felt the wide-eyed terror there was a little unwarranted. If Contessa could dodge her tentacles, he was confident he could do the same.

Putting it out of mind for now, he focused on the door. It was marked out with blocky yellow paint--a colour he had a lot of appreciation for, he was finding--but there was no obvious mechanism to open it. 

Growing impatient, he decided to throw caution to the wind for now. Precise strikes in places his power told him were vulnerable had the door creaking open in a second.

It turned out the girl hadn’t been exaggerating. If Kurt’s power weren’t so suited to seeing in the dark, if his reflexes weren’t so trained, if his awareness wasn’t on such high alert, the tendrils that shot out towards him would’ve torn him to pieces. Calculations as to their speed and strength lashed through his mind as he danced between the attacking appendages. They came at him by the dozens, then quickly by the hundreds.

It was all he could do to stay alive as he weaved his way into the room, making slow progress towards the briefcase.

Garotte herself was making a high-pitched warbling noise, terror rendering her almost insensate. 

There was a pain in Kurt’s chest. Unusual. Was it his power trying to alert him to the danger of the noise Garotte was making? He could only assume so.

Changing tack and direction, he darted towards Garotte’s head. Precise strikes sent her tendrils flopping to the ground, turning to little more than string as they were disconnected from her core. More came, but Kurt quickly worked up a rhythm. He was still two-point four eight meters from the girl’s core, but he was getting closer.

Still, the monstrous cape kept warbling; in fact, her inconsolable noise was coming close to screaming, now.

“Bothersome,” Kurt muttered.

He was now on the other side of the room from the briefcase. Failure was not an option, but he was risking discovery at this point. It didn’t actually matter if he got caught, but he’d committed to his stealth game and he wasn’t going to concede so easily.

Composed and not in the least disappointed, Kurt stepped back to the door and slammed it shut as more tendrils lanced out faster than one could blink.

It took four point six seconds for the girl to realise she was no longer in danger of taking a life and cease her incessant babble. Still blubbering like a baby, she looked him up and down.

“You didn’t get the case?” she asked.

Kurt thought fast for an excuse. “My presence was causing you quite some distress.”

“I almost killed you!”

Kurt sniffed. As if something like that would kill him! Telling her that would be counterproductive, he felt. Instead, drawing on his vague knowledge of comforting people, he said, “But you didn’t. You held back.” Her fear of harming others, while trite, was obvious. That pang in his chest was still there, for some reason. “I believe you can control it, if you really try.”

“I can’t! They have a mind of their own!”

Aggravating. A therapist, he was not. 

Kurt eyed the briefcase, thinking. No doubt he could dodge her tendrils and grab it if he wished, but it would take long enough that her panicked cries were sure to attract attention.

He was going to have to keep distracting her. But how? His eyes roved over her space, bare as it was. Bolted down, reinforced furniture, with handles for her tendrils to attach to. If he looked closely, he could make out pieces of paper stuck to the wall. Artwork, at a guess. Self-made? Somewhat impressive, considering her obvious lack of dexterity.

However, her computer drew his attention most, simply by virtue of being the only thing in the room providing any illumination.

“What were you doing?” he asked.

“What?”

“Before I arrived,” he clarified. “You were up late, with your computer on. What were you doing?”

She blinked at him. It took her a few moments to gather herself. “I was talking to my friends on PHO. We were having a Christmas party in our chat room.”

Steel-like force of will kept him from rolling his eyes. He had been wondering what he was doing here when Contessa was supposedly off crashing various christmas parties. Now he had his answer.

Feigning interest, Kurt requested elaboration.

“Oh, I don’t actually know any of them.” Her voice was small. “Or, well, they don’t know who I am. What I am. They’re just a bunch of people I talk to online.”

“And the party?”

“It’s not really a party, I can’t go to parties. Just a bunch of us talking, playing christmas games, some of them have christmas food like mince pies. Stuff like that.”

“You were enjoying yourself?”

“Yeah. It’s good fun. Makes me feel more normal. For a little while, I imagined I was in the same room with them all. I had a normal body, and we played in-person games.”

Taking care not to make a sound, Kurt shimmied the door back open and slid into the room. 

“It’s nice to be able to talk to people without being scared about hurting them, you know? My therapist has a special suit she puts on so she can come in here, but it’s not the same. Every moment, I’m scared that my tendrils will break through her protection. Online, I don’t have to worry.”

He stole further into the room, timing his footfalls to land at the same time as loudly spoken words. Five steps landed him beside the briefcase. Almost moving in slow-motion, he gently picked it up. 

His chest was still hurting, and now there was an odd obstruction in his throat. Was there an airborne contaminant in the room? An unrecorded side-effect of Garotte’s ability?

“I just--- it feels nice to pretend I’m normal. When I’m talking with my friends online, I can forget that I’m… this. A monster. A killer.” 

Either way, Kurt made more haste in exiting the room, though he didn’t quite throw caution to the wind. Garotte was still talking when he coaxed the glass door shut once more.

“A creature that can never be loved. Trapped in this place for the rest of my life, with no idea who I am or where I came from.”

When he looked at her, he saw tear tracks on her cheeks.

The pain in his chest sharpened. It seemed the effect was coming from Garotte, after all. A secondary master power? Bothersome.

Her eyes fixed on him. “The hat-lady said someone will come to help me someday. Do you think she was telling the truth?”

Kurt didn’t know what to say. Contradicting Contessa was foolish at the best of times, but countermanding her drunken commitment seemed even less advisable.

Thus, he turned to leave without a word. He could hear her quite sniffling behind him as he stepped beyond the door.

Outside the room, his confusion doubled. The task had been completed, vial retrieved. He’d even managed to keep to his arbitrary self-imposed mission parameters, judging by the lack of alarm.

Kurt wrinkled his nose. Looked back towards Garotte’s room.

He was no longer within her line of sight or presence. Why did his chest still hurt? Her master power must have been more insidious than anticipated.


	5. DAVID I

DAVID I

When David thought of Christmas Eve, it conjured images of a church gathering consisting of a few dozen people. Hymns, sermons, and prayers aplenty. Celebrating the birth of Christ came first in his mind; gaudy things like Santa Claus costumes, snowmen, and little elves were frivolous extras he very much could have done without. Especially when it came to this ridiculous costume Contessa had insisted he dress up in.

The enormous gathering of humanity before him was like a perverted distortion of what he thought a Christmas ceremony was supposed to be. 

He could take some solace in the fact he didn’t stick out like a sore thumb. For reasons he couldn’t even begin to guess, the majority of people in the crowd were dressed in bulbous white outfits not so dissimilar from his own. His curiosity at what possible kind of alternate-earth divergence could lead to  _ this _ was short-lived, and he started to make his way towards the vast crowd.

They were larger in number than any communion he’d ever laid eyes upon, stood in the open air before a statue that would have fit lady liberty in the gap between its toes, singing in their tens of thousands, a cacophonic chorus of voices that blended together into a wave of deep noise that rattled his bones. It was almost beautiful. A part of him wished he could understand the words. 

As if in response to his thoughts, a new power slotted into place. A Thinker ability to recognise and recontextualise patterns. An adequate translator, if applied creatively.

Shaking his head, he continued forth into the crowd. There was a job to be done, and it wasn’t an easy one. Somewhere among these thousands of people, Contessa had deposited a vial. Why she had done it and why he needed to retrieve it personally, he didn’t know. But if it had to be done, it had to be done.

A few gave him odd looks as he moved into the crowd. His ridiculous costume didn’t stand out, but his black hair did. He’d never seen so many blondes in one place.

The singing slowly started to fade, replaced instead by a group of priests at the base of the statue, speaking in union. A sermon, then.

As he approached ever closer, his power started to translate for him. 

With every step he took, the words clarified. With every step he took, he understood more of the prayer, more of its meaning. With every step he took, he moved slower and slower, understanding dawning on him.

Finally, his steps came to a halt as he stared up at the priests. Their words cut him to the core.

“Our future is uncertain!” They spoke with a dozen voices. The crowd listened in rapturous silence, David included. “But in that, it is beautiful.”

_ You’re wrong. The future is certain. We just refuse to tell you all about it. _

“The great prophet Nazus imparted his words upon us: that which is unknown is wondrous. To be certain is to be stagnant. To be unsure is to be in a position where one must learn. So we will move forward, and we will learn the future!”

Somewhat nonsensical as his translation ability was still ramping up to full power, but the words struck home all the same. Not for the reasons the priests were likely going for, however.

All these people, all their endless optimism--an entire religion founded around telling themselves not to worry about what was to come, it seemed--and they were living a lie. An ignorant lie rather than a deliberate deception, but a lie all the same.

David started moving once more. His fingernails bit into his palms, thirsting for blood. 

It was absurd. Optimism was supposed to be a good thing, but it just made him sick.

The sermon had come to an end by the time he made it to the raised platform. He had approached with the intention of speaking to one of the priests, but it turned out he didn’t need to.

The vial was nestled in the grass at the base of the great statue. David shook his head in disbelief as he bent to pick it up, bringing it close to his eyes to inspect it. Undamaged, miraculously, though it was a bit scuffed from lying in the dirt. 

David turned it over in his fingers. The request for a door back to Cauldron’s base sat on the end of his tongue, but it remained there, unspoken. He looked up, and one of the priests--or, a priestess in this case--caught his eye.

A woman, with blond hair shorn close to her skull. White markings on tanned skin teased out the lines of her cheekbones and jaw, wrapping around her temples to meet in the middle of her forehead. The circular emblem between her eyes was surely some kind of religious symbol.

After a moment of eye contact, she approached, her long, dark robes flowing around her bauble-like under-clothes. It made her look like a snowman with a sheet thrown over it.

“Your hair colour is not one I have seen before, stranger,” the priestess said. 

The translation power was still less than perfect. David hoped it would get his point across adequately. “I’m a visitor from a far land.”

“So I see,” she said. “And you are welcome among the people of Nazus. But, tell me, what brings you here?”

He brandished the vial. “Retrieving something.”

“And you have retrieved it. Why do you remain?”

_ Good question _ , David thought as he found himself at a loss for words.

The priestess must have read something in his expression, somehow. “Does the uncertainty of the future frighten you?”

“No.” He realised he meant it at the same moment the word left his lips. “The…  _ optimism  _ bothers me for my own reasons.” He paused, swallowed past the lump in his throat. “What if I knew the future?”

“That would be quite the burden.”

“What if I knew it was bad? If your optimism for what’s to come was unfounded?”

_ That the apocalypse is coming, and with every day that passes my ability to prevent it weakens? _

The priestess blinked several times. Between one blink and the next, there was the briefest flash of offence. No different to a Christian being told Heaven isn’t real, he imagined. 

“I would tell you nothing is certain until it has happened, friend,” she said. Was he imagining the odd emphasis on the last word? “If you could gaze into the future, would your observation not change the outcome?”

David wanted to shake his head, to impart on her the inevitability of what was certain to come, but offending her further would serve no purpose. He wasn’t looking for an argument.

“How do you do it? How can you look at the world around you and have hope that there’s anything good to come?” He asked. Parahumans were on Earth He, he knew, and misery surrounded them as it did everywhere else.

“We choose to,” the priestess replied simply.

“You choose to? That’s it?”

“That’s it. Nazus showed us that a life of fear is not a life at all. It is a walking death, a curse, but it is a  _ choice _ to exist that way. We look at the future, and we focus on the good things it could bring. Better things.”

Shame coiled in David’s gut, tighter by the moment. 

Somewhere in that feeling, though, was a lighter sensation. Tiny, but there. A single butterfly in a raging storm.

“And if the end of all things was approaching?”

“We would believe we can defeat it.”

“If it was all-powerful?”

“That we have the strength to overcome it.”

David swallowed. “That you’re getting weaker with every day that passes, while its strength remains the same?”

“That we can find new strength, new power,” the priestess said. “Nothing is inevitable.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

David closed his eyes. He remained unconvinced, however much he wished otherwise. “Thank you for your time, priestess.”

“It is no trouble. Will we see you again, stranger?”

“Perhaps,” he said. He started to turn away. “Perhaps I’ll need to hear the sermon a few more times before it sinks in.”

“Good travels to you, then…” she trailed off.

“Eidolon,” he said. “Call me Eidolon.”

“Good travels to you, Eidolon.”


	6. REBECCA IV

REBECCA IV

It didn’t seem fair that the name of such a warm man was enshrined in cold stone.

But the world wasn’t fair.

“I spoke to your mother today,” Rebecca said. It felt silly and right at once. Contradictory feelings. “She was the same as ever. I once told you that you must have gotten your incessant positivity from her.” She shook her head, smiling. “I’ll visit her more in the future. I’m sorry for leaving her all alone.”

Wind sighed through the swaying silver grass. If she listened closely, she could almost imagine she heard Richard’s laughter carried upon it, mocking her for keeping up with this ridiculous charade.

She sighed, dismissing the pointless self-recrimination. Even if she knew, logically, that he’d never hear her, there were still things she needed to say. Today had showed her that.

“I’m sorry for not visiting you, too.” She fought to keep her voice steady, though she knew there was no good reason to. “For the longest time, I told myself I’d come make my peace with what happened to you once we’d won. Once we’d saved the world.” A bark of laughter escaped her. “I never believed that. I just couldn’t bring myself to say goodbye.”

Her vision blurred.

“Ten years and I’m still grieving. Isn’t that pathetic?”

 _No_ , the wind whispered.

She laughed once more. “Isn’t it? I’m supposed to be the logical one, the rational one. I can’t afford to be caught up in my emotions, so I ignored them. Suppressed them. I told myself the goals of Cauldron were more important than how I felt, but that was a lie, wasn’t it?”

“The truth is, I don’t think we can win. Doctor Mother doesn’t, I can see it in her eyes. Neither does Contessa. If that’s the case, then I’ve just been running away from you, haven’t I?”

The wind gave no answer. Maybe it never would.

Rebecca lowered herself to the ground, sitting cross-legged before the grave. 

“So, I think now is as good a time as any. Let’s catch up.” The first hints of snow were falling. Rebecca smiled. “First of all: Merry Christmas, Hero.”


	7. KURT II

KURT II

Kurt believed in people getting fair compensation for effort expended. In that regard, it didn’t take him long to come up with a way he could reward Garotte for the assistance she’d rendered him, little as it might have been. Her cooperation had not been necessary, from her perspective; she could have fought him off. She was well within her rights to.

Yet cooperate she had. That was deserving of payment.

There was also the fact that her secondary ability--whatever it was--was still causing him pain in his chest. It left him unable to perform at the best of his ability, since it incessantly drew his mind back to the pathetic, snivelling face held up in the corner of the dark room by a mass of grasping tendrils.

Irritating. Irritating, and inescapable, it seemed.

Thus, Kurt requested a door, and stepped through it.

“Mr. Bough,” he said.

The man in question jumped up from the cot he had been sleeping on. Still in the throes of dream, he fumbled at the gun that had been sitting on his bedside table. It went clattering to the ground.

Mr. Bough froze in place, staring at him with wide eyes. Recognition? Curious, but irrelevant.

“I have not come here to harm you,” Kurt said.

Though Mr. Bough was an ecoterrorist, sleeping in a canvas tent in the middle of the mid-western wilderness, his power was uniquely suited to the purposes Kurt envisioned. Further, he was more mercenary in nature than the colleagues he’d found himself. The perfect pawn.

“I came here to offer you a job.”

Mr. Bough squinted at him, then spoke with careful enunciation on every syllable. “What kind of job?”

Kurt shifted to the side, gesturing with one arm to the still opened portal. “I would like you to use your power on an acquaintance of mine, help her put herself back together, so to speak. I will give you further details along the way. Just know, for now, that you will be handsomely rewarded.”

“And you’re not just going to kill me and dump me somewhere?”

“I don’t know what gave you that impression, Mr Bough.”

“You’ll let me come back here afterwards?”

“Naturally.”

There was a beat of silence. Kurt watched Mr Bough serenely, trying to seem as unthreatening as possible. 

“Do I have a choice?” Mr Bough asked.

“Of course you do.” Though Kurt dearly hoped he would agree. The other capes who could perform this task to his satisfaction would be rather more problematic to recruit.

Mr. Bough snorted as he stepped around Kurt towards the portal. “Sure. Let’s just get this over with.”

As if in response to Mr Bough’s words, that twang in Kurt’s chest lessened.


	8. DAVID II

DAVID II

David stared up at the impressive stained glass window of a backwater Texas church and wondered if the Lord would ever forgive him for his sins. Numerous as the heinous deeds he’d committed were, they surely paled in comparison to what the future held.

Allowing billions--trillions, perhaps--to dream of a better tomorrow, while he knew that day would almost certainly never come. He took some solace in the knowledge that many of those people who didn’t survive the Golden Man’s inevitable rampage would find their way to eternal paradise.

But was that fair? He didn’t know.

Hence, he found himself in a church he’d never set foot in before, long past midnight. 

“Merry Christmas,” he murmured to himself. Not a moment later, one of the side-doors to the church creaked open, and soft footsteps approached. David didn’t turn.

The footsteps stopped by his bench, and the man--the priest, David could see out of the corner of his vision--settled himself down on the pew at David’s side.

> David's active Stranger power prevented anyone from reacting appropriately to his ridiculous outfit, so the priest didn't bat an eye when his buttocks came into contact with the chilly puddle that had been slowly gathering on the pew. Part of him wanted to inform the priest that his robes were currently absorbing ice-cold water, but ultimately he couldn't bear the shame.

“Good morning,” the priest said casually. He had a thick texan drawl. A familiar comfort.

David nodded in greeting.

“What brings you to my church at such early hours, friend? On Christmas morning, no less.” The priest paused. “I haven’t seen you in my congregation, before.”

“My first time here,” David replied. His thoughts were whirling, chaotic. “I was travelling aimlessly, trying to clear my head, and I came across your church. I thought the Lord might help me shed some light on my issues. I always found it easier to think in churches.” He paused, grimacing. “I’m sorry to intrude, so late at night.”

“Not at all. My church is always open to those who seek its comfort.”

David nodded. It was nice to hear he didn’t have to add another crime to his record tonight, small though it might have been in the grand scheme.

“I’m Reverend Johnson,” the man continued. 

“David.” Perhaps it was inadvisable to give his real name, but something twisted in his gut at the thought of giving a false name in a house of God.

“It’s nice to meet you, David.”

“Likewise.”

They fell silent, staring up at the stained glass. It depicted Jesus’ miracles, as far as he could tell--from the bread and wine to healing the sick to rising from the dead. For a briefly blasphemous moment, David had the thought that he could repeat any of Jesus’ venerated feats with ease.

He shook his head, dispelling the notion. Ridiculous.

“I suppose I’ve had a crisis of faith, recently,” David said. “Or maybe for a long time, if I’m being truthful.”

“In God?” the reverend asked.

“In the future.” David shook his head, then thought about it more. “Though I suppose one could say that’s also a loss of faith in God. In His plan.”

“I see. May I ask what shook your faith?”

“Certainty,” David said without thinking. “Or, should I say, my assumption of its certainty. I had become so cynical, so jaded, that I couldn’t see anything but horror in the future of humanity.”

“There’s a lot of darkness in the world.”

“More than you know, reverend. Much more.” He sighed. His body felt heavy, overcome with weariness to the point that gravity was doubled. “For years, the idea that the darkness couldn’t be beaten crept up on me, slowly enough that I never noticed. At some point, it became my automatic assumption that all was doomed. An inevitability. I lost my faith in something better.”

“That sounds unpleasant. What changed your mind?”

“I’m not sure it’s been changed, per se. More like I’ve noticed the problem and _want_ to change it. I have to.”

The reverend stayed quiet. David could feel the man’s gaze on him, and the Lord’s with it.

“Accepting defeat--anticipating it. That’s not something I can abide by. I mustn’t. There’s too much at stake to go into the future believing there’s no chance of victory.”

David stood.

“I’m sorry to bother you so late at night, reverend.”

“Not at all,” Reverend Johnson said. “Like I told you, the house of God is always open to his followers. You’re welcome at any time.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. I hope you can regain your faith in His design, David.”

Ironically, the mere concept of Scion’s inevitable, unstoppable rampage being a part of God’s design shook his faith more than anything David had heard in his forty-seven years of life. 

He shook his head again, willing the thought back into the abyss from which it came. The cynicism crept up on him so easily, when he had his guard down. He had to be proactive in countering it.

 _Scion can be defeated_ , he thought. _Lives can be saved_.

_They have to be._

He left the church without another word.


	9. REBECCA V

REBECCA V

The transition from a gloomy cemetery in Massachusetts to a sprawling sandy beach in another dimension couldn’t have been more stark. The sound of waves lapping on the shore replaced softly crying winds. A cold, overcast December morning where the world seemed to be a pencil sketch became an expansive painting filled with a dozen shades of blue and half as many oranges and reds. Rebecca could taste the salt on the air as much as she could smell it.

Tranquil, in a single word. Uninhabited save for the woman stood at the point where the waves would _just_ caress the skin above her bare ankles, facing the open ocean with her back to Rebecca. She wore her usual white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows above rolled-up trousers that swayed against her shins. For the first time Rebecca had ever seen it outside of a dimly lit bedroom in Cauldron’s base, her hair was loose of its braid, flowing down her back, untamed. Her signature hat and suit jacket were nowhere to be seen.

“It’s beautiful here,” Rebecca said. She was far away, but Contessa still tilted her head as if listening. “Your homeworld?”

Contessa nodded.

“It’s beautiful,” Rebecca said, because she felt it bore repeating.

To her right was a gently flickering fire pit, surrounded by five chairs. Empty save for one: Doctor Mother, reading a book. Her shoulders were slumped, free from a weight that had been omnipresent since the day Rebecca had met her.

Rebecca turned her attention back to Contessa. “Were you ever even drunk?” 

No answer. She hadn’t been expecting one.

She heard the telltale sound of a portal opening behind her--that vortex that was always created when two worlds and their different climates, weather, and air pressures collided--though it was soon gone and someone stepped up to her side. She gave him a glance. David.

“Feeling better?” Rebecca asked.

David nodded. “She got what she wanted. I would have rather she had been more upfront about it, but this whole charade has served her purpose.”

“Can I ask?”

David’s silence was answer enough.

When a portal opened once more and Kurt came to stand on her other side, Rebecca let out a sigh through her nose. They looked quite the sight: three of the most powerful individuals in all the known worlds, stood on a warm, sandy beach dressed up in christmas costumes--a sexy santa, a naughty elf, and a flubby snowman. 

Rebecca imagined Contessa was laughing at them, though from looking at her she could see no indication of such.

“And you?” Rebecca asked.

“What about me?” Kurt replied.

“Any emotional revelations?”

Kurt was quiet for a long moment. “In a manner of speaking, I suppose. I wouldn’t call it emotional, but the lesson she wanted to teach me has been received, now that I think about it.”

She knew him well enough to see he wasn’t going to elaborate, so didn’t bother asking. Instead, she made her way towards Doctor Mother.

“Were you in on this?” Rebecca asked once she was within earshot.

The Doctor spoke without looking up from her book. “I indulge her from time to time. If she wanted to play out her own little Christmas Carol, I wasn’t going to get in her way.”

Rebecca scoffed. “It hardly fit the Christmas Carol theme at all.”

“Did it need to?”

That stopped her short. “I guess not.” Rebecca took a moment to inspect the arrangement of the chairs, then lowered herself into the one that had clearly been assigned for her when she spotted the new Maggie Holt book perched on the arm. “And the rest of the day is to be dedicated to relaxation, I take it?”

“When was the last time you took a day off, Rebecca?” Doctor Mother asked. “Or any of us, for that matter?”

None of them spoke.

Rebecca had been working twenty-three hours a day, seven days a week, from the moment she had been told Richard hadn’t made it. She figured it was the exact same for David. Kurt had probably been working non-stop since long before then. 

When was the last time? The answer came to her easily thanks to her prodigious memory, though she chose not to voice it: December 25th, 1999. The last Christmas before Hero’s death.

Eleven years. It was sad, now that she was forced to confront it. When had her life become this slog of grim determination? She’d been an idealist, once. Of the belief that her work shouldn’t overtake her life, and it was all truly for the greater good.

Somewhere along the way, it had snuck up on her and consumed her whole.

If there was one thing she was going to take away from all this, it was that she needed to learn to live again.

Thus, she got comfortable and picked up her book.

David and Kurt settled into their seats shortly after, and silence settled over them all. The waves kissed the shores, the wind sighed over the sand, and Rebecca allowed herself to take it all in. There was still a weight on her shoulders, something in the back of her mind always running, endlessly demanding that she get back to work--there was so much to do, so little time, a crisis every minute, and the inescapable fact there would be more to come.

Today, she let it simmer. There, acknowledged, but pushed to the side as she picked up her book and let the words draw her into another world.

It was nice.

An hour or a day could have passed before Contessa made her way back over to their group, but she didn’t stop. Instead, she continued along the beach. 

A moment of contemplation was all Rebecca needed before she decided to follow.

They walked without speaking, Contessa a few paces ahead. They moved without hurry, content to enjoy the beach that seemed to exist only for them. 

An hour took them miles along the shore, and a dune that sloped upwards to the sky rose in the distance. Contessa turned, one eyebrow raised. 

Rebecca gathered her up in a bridal carry and flew them to the top. From here, they could see for miles. Endless sand in one direction, endless ocean in the other. The sun was nearing the end of its journey across the sky, painting the world in pink and deep red. The other members of Cauldron were grains of sand in the far distance. 

“Did you learn anything for yourself today, or were you only the teacher?” Rebecca asked once she’d settled Contessa back on her feet.

“Both and neither,” Contessa said. She took a moment to smooth down her shirt. The wind caught her hair, and she had to turn to the side to keep it out of her face. “I learned what the ghost of Christmas past could teach you, if you count that.”

Rebecca sighed. “It didn’t resemble the Christmas Carol at all. Unless you genuinely think I’m Scrooge?”

“I did learn something for myself, I think,” she said, shamelessly dodging the question. “I was sorely in need of a day off.” She paused. “And I quite like being drunk.”

“Please do so in a controlled environment next time.”

Contessa smiled. “Does that mean you’ll drink with me in future?”

“I can’t get drunk.”

“Still.”

Rebecca sighed, but there was no true exasperation in it. “If it would make you happy.”

They fell silent. Rebecca looked out over the ocean, while Contessa watched her. After a long while, Contessa’s hand stole into her pocket, then rose up above both of their heads--she had to stand on her tip-toes to make it work.

“Merry Christmas, Rebecca,” Contessa said.

Rebecca gave the mistletoe a flat look.

“Happy holidays,” she replied.


End file.
